


Lifeline

by a_little_chai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castiel (Supernatural) Deserves to be Loved, College Student Castiel (Supernatural), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depressed Castiel (Supernatural), Gen, Hotline Operator Dean Winchester, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt No Comfort, No Slash, One Shot, Only Read If You’re in the Mood For Some Pain, Out of Character, Phone Calls & Telephones, Sad, Suicidal Castiel (Supernatural), Triggers, kind of drabble-y, spoiler: he’s not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: Castiel needed to hear someone’s voice.Dean was there to listen.





	Lifeline

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Honestly, I don’t really like this, but whatever. Enjoy! 
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS! EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND ACTIONS. (And implied self-harm.)

“He-Hello?” 

His voice shook. He hated it when his voice shook. Spending years repressing every emotion you felt until he was a heartless machine did that. It was the only way to survive in life, as though God made it that way on purpose: suffer, but do it silently. With your head held high, smiling with chapped lips and waving with scarred hands. 

Hearing that one, trembling syllable brought every feeling crashing back down onto him, until he was drowning desperately in shock and anger and hatred and sadness and- 

“Hello, this is the non-emergency police line for Lawrence, Kansas. What do you need help with today?”

-every other innately human feeling that seemed to bring only pain and more pain.

The man was clearly reading from a script, the faint undercurrent of _bored_ showing in every monotone letter. But he was talking to him. That was something so unheard of, so out of the ordinary, that his heart beat jumped into overdrive. He could feel it pumping steadily faster all the way through his fingertips, clutching at the bathroom countertop. 

Sometimes he felt like a ghost. Walking through hallways without a single glance or thought. Sitting in lecture halls, handing in papers, all without a word. And then he went home, to his tiny apartment where he lived alone. Seemed he was always alone. 

“If this is a complaint about the road closures up on I-231, trust me, we know.”

All the fight left him. Every façade fell apart in an instant, every wall he had built to get him through the day. Fake smiles, steady hands. Long sleeves and a bit of old foundation he’d bought at a corner store. Five dollars and seventy five cents, apparently, was the cost for not being reported to administration. 

His knees buckled. Worn out from constantly supporting his flagging body. Only instinct forced him to shove his arms out to catch himself; he would have face planted otherwise. His entire being felt made of lead encased in a ton of concrete. 

At least the phone was safe. 

“... Hello? Is someone there?” 

Panic shot through him. That man couldn’t hang up. Castiel knew what would happen if he did. He would be left alone, in this bathroom. It was odd, knowing that your fate rest entirely in another person ignorant of everything. A man on the other side of a phone line somewhere in the city. 

“Yes. Sorry.” 

It slipped out before he could stop it. Most people abhorred apologies, said they made them feel awkward. And look at him, same as always: making other people miserable.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong, sir?” 

A million choices faced him. Lie. Hang up. Tell him the whole and ugly truth. With every option came a voice, whispering insecurities and doubts. Lying is a sin. Hanging up is rude and impolite. And telling the truth? 

_Don’t be a burden, you’re far more trouble than it’s worth, anyhow. You should have killed yourself a long time ago._

“I... I-“ 

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe through the massive, foggy mess of his brain. He reached a shaky hand up to his head, grabbing at his hair. Pain sparked along his scalp, which he savored. Rocked slightly back and forth, knees pulled close to his chest. 

_Breathe. Just, breathe._

“If this is a stupid prank call, I swear that I’ll-“ 

_You need to breathe in order to live. You want to live. You need to live. You need to breathe in order to-_

“Help me... please, help.” 

His hand traced numbly along the tiles. Fingernails dug into loose bits of grout, probably blackened with mold. He couldn’t really bring himself to look. 

“I can get you help, but you need to tell me what is going on.” 

The man’s voice was nice. Soothing. Young. A little rough. Now sharply edged, any boredom replaced with seriousness that only comes when you are dealing with life and death. Something drew him to that voice. Faintly familiar, as though he’d heard it once before, recently. 

“Please, I... _please_.” 

His voice hitched, a sob climbing in his throat that he quickly smothered. But that one led the way for more, and soon his mouth was open in silent screams and eyes bled tears that ran down his face. He could do nothing but twist his hair harder, thankful that he hadn’t found the energy to cut it recently. 

“Look, breathe, man. Just breathe, slowly. Tell me what’s happening. Are you in danger?” 

Finally. Finally, a question. He grappled with it for a second, turning its meanings and connotations over and over in his mind. Was he, in danger? Certainly, he was at risk for being hurt. At risk for ‘harming himself or others,’ that seemingly innocuous little sentence that graced every therapist’s confidentiality agreement. Violate that, and you cease to have free will. 

“Y-yes. I think so.” 

His hands were shaking. One still twisting cruelly at his hair, the other making patterns in the dust that coated the floor. Wobbly lines that would soon be erased with wind or people. A ephemeral mark on the world. 

“I think... I think I might kill myself.” 

It felt... it felt... He didn’t know. Not good, but like a weight was taken off his shoulders. Some secret he’d hidden. Though his hands still trembled and his eyes cried and he wanted scream and shout but there was only a horrible emptiness. 

There’d been some small part of him that had had a spark of hope. That once he told someone everything would get better. The last years of pain and pain would wash away, and he could begin anew, reborn, in a way. 

But he was still trapped in this life, this body. These feelings and mistakes and pressure that built up and up, slowly crushing him. 

“Is there anyone around you, that you could go to?” 

That sent a wave of cold over his whole body, and he couldn’t stop the laugh that spilled out. It was bitter. Of course he has no one. Who could ever care about a man as pathetic and ruined and broken and freakish as him? 

There was silence for a moment. Twin sets of breathing, both too loud under the stress, was the only white noise. 

“My- my name’s Dean. Dean Winchester. I’m not going to leave you, not until I know you’re safe. What’s your name?” 

“Cas.” 

“Cas?” 

He smiled, barely noticing how twisted and bitter it would have looked had anyone else been in that bathroom. There was something so beautiful about hearing someone say your name. It only reminded him of everything he couldn’t have. 

“Yes.” 

“Can you... tell me a bit about yourself? How old are you?” 

He leaned his head against the back wall. It pounded painfully as he withdrew his fingers from being twined in his hair. The knuckles were sore from gripping. His other hand fell limp as well. 

“Twenty-two.” 

This was simple. Questions that took little effort. Which was good. He was so tired. He didn’t want to think. 

“You in college?” 

He was glad the phone was on the counter. He would have dropped it already. His head drooped down until it was resting where the tub and wall met. He breathed a sigh of relief as the cool porcelain touched him. 

“Yes. English Lit.” 

The words sounded weird. Muffled. And his mouth didn’t quite want to move, lips feeling as though weighed down by those weights they have in gyms. Brightly colored pink and purple and blue for different weights and sizes. He quite liked those weights. 

“Cas, are you alright?” 

There was fear, in the man’s voice. Dean’s. 

“No.” 

Simple, plain. 

“What’s wrong?” 

_Don’t lie, Castiel. Lying is a sin._

“There’s too much red.” 

That wasn’t what he meant to say. It was true though. It soaked through his jeans, his hands. Even his old overcoat. He felt as though the whole world was drowning in red, as his vision blurred and shifted. 

Dean was yelling. His voice was sweet. He was glad for the company. 

It took effort to lift his hand from where it had started drawing a twisting pattern on the side of the tub. The red was garish against the white. 

He placed two fingertips lightly against his pulse-point, just beyond the spot where his lifeblood was pouring steadily out of his veins. The spot where, moments before dialing, he had taken that old pocket knife of his to. 

He could feel the steady, weak thrum of his heart go through his fingers. 

_Without this, you will be dead. Soon, some paramedic will do the same thing, and his fingers will only brush cold skin._

The thought was comforting. It shouldn’t be. 

Oh, and Dean. Dean Winchester. The first person to show any kind of worry about him in years. At least, he thought that it was genuine fright in his voice and not some lie. 

Maybe he would have a funeral. Maybe he wouldn’t be forgotten. 

Shouts were still coming from the phone. He couldn’t answer. Only savor the sound of someone noticing him. Loud confirmation that he was real, that he was here, and not some phantasm. 

And, lulled by the sound of Dean’s yells, he let his eyes closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you somehow liked this mess, give a kudo or a comment. It’s always appreciated!
> 
> ~You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.~


End file.
